


Another Story Must Begin

by TardisInWonderland



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 16:21:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/599751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisInWonderland/pseuds/TardisInWonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumbelle Secret Santa for Munkinette: "Truth or Dare under the Christmas tree." Title from Les Miserables lyrics.</p><p>Belle goes home with Ruby for the school holidays, but she wasn't expecting a rather strange Christmas Eve tradition and a very grouchy Storybrooke resident to come into her path.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Story Must Begin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [munkinette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/munkinette/gifts).



> Ummm... well, I don't know what you were expecting, Munki, but it probably wasn't this... so... read on if you dare.

_She has become marble in becoming mire. Whoever touches her feels cold. She passes; she endures you; she ignored you; she is the severe and dishonored figure. Life and the social order have said their last word for her. All has happened to her that will happen to her. She has felt everything, borne everything, experienced everything, suffered everything, lost everything, mourned everything. She is resigned, with that resignation which resembles indifference, as death resembles sleep. She no longer avoids anything. Let the clouds fall upon her, and all the ocean sweep over her! What matters it to her? She is a sponge that is soaked._

“Belle?”

_At least, she believes it to be so; but it is an error to imagine that fate can be exhausted, and that one has reached the bottom of anything whatsoever.  
Alas! What are all these fates, driven on pell-mell? Whither are they going? Why are they thus? _

“Belle, honey?”

_He who knows that sees the whole of the shadow._

_He is alone. His name is God._

“Belle!”

“Huh?” She looked up suddenly, surprised. Ashley looked at her with a bemused expression. 

“It’s your turn.”

“Oh.” Belle closed the book gently, cheeks turning red, leaving her index finger between the pages to mark her place. She wasn’t trying to be rude, really, but  
she’d never found Truth or Dare interesting, and she just kept getting lost in her book…

“Truth or dare?”

“Umm… truth?” A collective groan issued from the rest of the group. “What?” 

“You _always_ pick truth.” Ruby moaned, slumping dramatically and rolling her eyes. 

“What’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.” Ashley shrugged, cutting a reprimanding glance towards Ruby. “ _Everyone_ has been picking truth, if you didn’t notice.”

Belle was attending college in New York, far north from her home state of North Carolina, but since her father was off attending to an ailing friend she was spending her Christmas with her roommate Ruby Lucas. Her father was away quite a bit, actually, on jobs and dealing with his sickly friend, and after accidentally letting it slip that “I spent Easter and Thanksgiving alone, too- I’ll be fine on Christmas,” Ruby wouldn’t hear of anything but Belle coming back to spend Christmas with them in Storybrooke.

It was a quaint little town, and Belle was quick to find out that it was the sort of place where almost _everyone_ knew almost _everything_ about almost _everybody_ else. They had two and a half weeks off for winter break, and within her first week she’d been introduced to almost everyone in the town with a smile and a handshake (and in the case of the mayor, a very threatening-looking, spider-who’s-caught-another-fly smile). This short introduction time, along with the fact that she was staying with arguably the most outgoing and wild of Storybrooke’s residents, was probably what contributed the most to her current situation: sitting with five other girls under a Christmas tree on December 24th, playing Truth or Dare at two in the morning.

Ruby lived with her Granny, who was extremely kind and hospitable, but also fairly strict. In fact, Belle was surprised she’d said yes to going out to a Christmas party at Ashley Boyd’s house, but Ruby assured her the group of friends did it every year (apparently ringing in Christmas Eve Day at Ashley’s was nearly sacred).  
“The group” was comprised of Aurora Green, Ashley Boyd, Mary Margaret, and Emma Swan. Ruby’s friends had taken to Belle immediately, and by the time the party rolled around they were together on a regular basis. She didn’t know them well, but she knew them well enough to feel comfortable spending time together.

It was ten o’ clock at night on December 23rd when someone had suggested they play Truth or Dare to pass the time. The “someone” had been Ruby, if she recalled correctly, and the suggestion had been met by groans. Apparently it was a tradition, and a much-abhorred tradition in Aurora’s and Mary Margaret’s case. So far there wasn’t much that anyone in their tight knit circle didn’t know already- Aurora had a thing for someone named Phillip, Mary Margaret was having troubles with her boss (in other words, the mayor), Emma was working at the Sheriff’s office, and Ashley was at home taking care of her baby and earning a degree online.

“But that’s boring!” Ruby whined, slumping. “Truth is for wimps.” She was clearly itching for someone to pick dare, but no one wanted to do it.

“ _You_ picked truth last time.” Belle said quietly. Aurora giggled, but Ruby just glared.

“We all know what we’re going to have to do if someone picks Dare.” Aurora rolled her eyes, then turned to Belle. “It’s a stupid tradition, but Ruby and Emma absolutely insist on it.”

“What is it?” Belle raised an eyebrow.

“Go up to the Beast’s house, ring the doorbell, and run away. It’s just tradition.” Emma said plainly. When Belle rolled her eyes, she added, “Hey, we made it up when we were eight. Don’t knock it.”

“Who’s the Beast?” 

“He is absolutely the most bitter, heartless, _meanest_ old Scrooge in all of Storybrooke.” Ruby declared. “A menace to the community that eats poor children for lunch.”

“He’s a cranky old author that lives in the hideously pink house a few blocks down- not that we have any confirmation he’s ever _written_ anything, but he’s got to be filthy rich. He basically owns the town.” Mary Margaret explained. “Kind of a recluse- doesn’t really talk to anyone and doesn’t come out often. He keeps to himself and the town lets him keep to himself.”

“He doesn’t have any family?” Living alone was bad enough, but alone with no family? It would be awful, to say the least.

“None that we know of. Nobody visits. If they call then we’ve heard nothing about it.”

“That’s… that’s so sad, though.” Belle’s fingers absentmindedly crisscrossed the highlighted pages of her book. She knew that holidays of any kind without family were the loneliest things in the world. Her father was often away on business, never by choice but often all the same, and if Ruby hadn’t offered to let her stay in Storybrooke with her and Granny, it wouldn’t be the first Christmas she’d spent alone.

“You are the only person on the planet that could have sympathy for that man.” Ruby rolled her eyes.

“Enough backstory on the Beast. We’ll have time for that later.” Ashley held up a hand to stop her before she started ranting. “Now, Belle: Truth or Dare?”

 

X

 

The next morning Belle woke up on Ashley’s living room floor, wrapped in a blanket but still in jeans and a sweater from the night before. The other girls were still fast asleep, even at ten in the morning, and rather than stay and try to fight the urge to shout “Wake up, it’s Christmas!” at the top of her lungs (even though it wasn’t Christmas quite yet), she decided to go for a walk. She left a note saying she’d be back soon, and trotted out the door.

Emma had been the one to finally bite the bullet and choose “Dare” the following evening. Ruby had jumped on the opportunity, and served as witness to the 2AM doorbell-ringing. After that general cheers of “Merry Not-Quite-Christmas!” went around, a bottle of champagne was opened, and Belle had been the only one to fall asleep without any alcohol in her system…

Which, in all honesty, was probably the main contributing factor to sleeping late. 

Near the end of Truth or Dare had come the catching up that simply couldn’t be done anywhere else- some stories are only meant to be told in the dark, and some only in the wee hours of the morning under a Christmas tree. 

In her Belle’s, it was quite a bit more of “getting to know you,” with a many stories and many tears. Mary Margaret talked about her stepmother, who seemed to be a constant force for trouble yet was somehow the longtime mayor, and how moving into a flat with Emma had worked out. Ashley updated the group on her daughter’s latest misadventures. Belle, Ruby, and Aurora talked about school. Aurora was studying some sort of horticulture, working on a developing a new type of thornless rose. She sounded like a near genius, if overly shy and very introverted.

Afterwards, the bottle of champagne had been opened, and then another. Belle had refused- she wasn’t one to drink, and preferred to spend the day perfectly sober. She wanted to remember everything about this trip as clearly as possible.

Book in hand and bundled up in a coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, Belle made her way down the snowy Storybrooke street. She wasn’t used to snow, or not snow like this- where she lived it didn’t snow, it _iced_. School was cancelled, businesses were closed, the works. The only similarity to Storybrooke was that you could generally still use the sidewalks, and it was quite windy out. In this town it wasn’t ice, it was proper snow, like the white fluff you see in a cartoon, a little grayer and slushier near roads and walkways, but pristine and undisturbed in yards and clumps on tree branches. The cold was like a magnet to Belle, especially with snow involved. She couldn’t resist going out and finding a place to simply sit and enjoy it, even if it meant leaving her book behind for a while.

Books were Belle’s world. Naturally introverted, being around lots of people for long amounts of time was something she found completely exhausting, and being alone with a cup of tea and a novel was possibly the best therapy she could ask for. They were an escape to other places, a security blanket for her like some people carried a purse or a jacket. Belle never liked large purses, and she wasn’t particularly attached to any of her jackets, but you never found her without a book.

Storybrooke was small, and walking a block or two brought her into the heart of town. She had planned on going until she was cold enough that it was time to turn back, but almost as soon as she hit the center of town, it started to snow.

A few minutes later it started to snow a little harder.

And then harder still.

Belle mentally cursed the fact that she hadn’t checked the weather forecast before she left, looking around frantically for a place she might be able to take refuge for a while. The snow was falling thick and fast now, and it wouldn’t be good to be stuck outside.

The issue? It was Christmas Eve. Everywhere was closed, even the town hall and the public library. Storybrooke didn’t have a church- the nearest one was fifteen minutes away- and that was the only building Belle could think of that might have its doors unlocked. She stumbled down the street another block, scouting for an awning or even a corner sheltered from the wind, when a movement caught her eye.

There- behind the glass! The shop was dark, and the sign read “CLOSED” in large letters, but surely it was worth a shot? Belle pushed on the door, and to her surprise and relief, found that it swung open and inwards.

A tiny bell tinkled over her head, announcing her entry, but no call of greeting followed.

Her face was raw from the wind, and she knew she would find it red and chapped the next time she looked in a mirror. Pulling off her hat, she walked around the shop. The sign was backwards from her view, but she could see it read “PAWN SHOP,” which was the only thing that would make sense considering the wide array of objects around the room.

There was a windmill in the middle of the floor, a small one, like a yard decoration. A tea set made of beautiful blue and white china sat in a corner cabinet on display, a small sign reading “not for sale” taped to the glass door. Jewelry sat under lights in a counter display case, pieces of cloth that hinted at folded clothing made of satin or silk peeked out from a trunk to the left, and an enormous, gaudy cuckoo clock adorned the wall behind the counter, chiming the half hour. 

“I realize it’s a rather small sign, dearie, but it does say “closed,” does it not?”

Belle spun around with a gasp, her book dropping from her hand and landing on the floor with a dull thump. Behind her stood a man with a cane, dressed in a suit and looking rather bemused. Light brown hair hung to his shoulders, and from this view Belle could tell he was several inches taller than she. He spoke with a Scottish accent.

“I- I’m sorry. I was out walking and it started snowing…” she fumbled through her words, heart pounding from surprise. “There wasn’t any other place to go.”  
He seemed to gauge her explanation for a moment, glanced out the window at the snow that was now falling so thick and fast that it was difficult to see, and nodded once, eyes dropping to the floor.

“Interesting choice.” He mused.

“What?” Belle was utterly confused, but he gestured with his free hand towards her fallen reading material.

“Your book. Most people like reading A Christmas Carol around this time of year.” 

“It’s an old favorite.” She said quickly, bending to grab the volume from the floor. “Comfort reading, you might call it.”

“I see. Miss…?” the man raised an eyebrow, waiting on a response.

“Belle French.” On impulse she took a step forward, closing the gap between them and offering her hand. He shook it hesitantly, as if a handshake was a foreign idea altogether, and possibly some kind of ritual requiring human sacrifice, but shake he did.

“Gold.” Peculiar last name, she thought, but Mr. Gold kept talking and pushed the thought away. “I’ve never seen you before- what brings you to Storybrooke at Christmas? It can’t be vacation, surely. No one ever comes to this place.” He leaned on his cane as if he was planning on standing for a while.

“I’m staying with Ruby over the college break. I wanted to go out and see the snow, and… well, I got a bit more than I bargained for.”

“I can see that.” Mr. Gold snorted. Belle glared, but forced herself not to snap at him. He seemed satisfied with her answer. “Well, Miss French, if you don’t make any trouble, you can stay here till the storm dies down.”

“Thank you.” She breathed, relieved.

She wound up sitting at a small plastic card table in a large plastic chair near the heater, flipping through her book while Mr. Gold sat across from her and did his accounting. They didn’t have much other introduction beyond gathering that he was a pawnbroker, someone who was not planning her demise at any moment, and that she wasn’t here to rob him. Beyond that was silence.

_She was a lovely blonde, with fine teeth. She had gold and pearls for her dowry; but her gold was on her head, and her pearls were in her mouth._

Mr. Gold’s muttered curse made her glance up from her reading. Outside, the snow still fell, blindingly white.

“Apologies.” He muttered.

“I’ll take that over a snowstorm any day.” Belle said, flashing a very small, brief grin and closing her book.

“Why were you out walking alone in the snow, anyways?” he closed his book, and put his pen down with a click, looking at Belle as if she was a complete lunatic.

“Everyone else was asleep- and _you’re_ the one out in a shop all alone on Christmas Eve.” Belle retorted almost immediately. She might have regretted it considering he was her ticket to shelter for the time being, but he seemed surprised- nay, _intrigued_. 

“There are things to do. Someone’s got to do it, and this _is_ my shop.” Gold shrugged.

“But on Christmas Eve?” she gestured around, as if the very world had been turned upside down simply because it was Christmas Eve. For Belle, that was what Christmas always had meant. “Don’t you have family or friends you want to be with?” When she was little her family had dropped everything just to spend time together… after her mother died, things had changed.

Mr. Gold’s featured shifted almost imperceptibly.

“No.” he picked up his cane in one hand and accounting books in the other, walking towards the curtained area at the back of the shop.

 

_She had never borne any other name. At the epoch of her birth the Directory still existed. She had no family name; she had no family; no baptismal name; the church no longer existed. She bore the name which pleased the first random passer-by, which had encountered her, which a very small child, running bare-legged in the street. She received the name as she received water from the clouds upon her brow when it rained-_

 

“How far are you?”

“Huh?” Belle looked up once again, resurfacing from the pages she had nearly managed to bury herself in. Gold had finally came out from the back of the shop, and was staring pointedly at her book.

“The book. How far along are you?” He glanced at her bookmark, unable to see the highlights and marks on the pages from his angle, even with the book open.

“Not far, but I’ve read it before. Erm… twice.” She blushed slightly. Carrying around books was just a habit, but she didn’t like being caught in the middle of one of her comfort reads. Many people thought it strange to read a book more than once, and she’d rather just dodge the looks. The corner of Mr. Gold’s mouth twitched into something like a smile.

“Some stories are just that captivating.”

“Sometimes.” Belle agreed. “I remember reading once ‘Fairy tales are more than true, not because they tell us dragons exist, but because they tell us dragons can be beaten.’”

“G. K. Chesterton.” He nodded, pleased.

“I think it applies to all stories, myself.” Belle mused.

“How so?”

“Well… when I was little, my parents used to go geocashing. I didn’t understand what it was about, so they told me that when you take something, you leave something behind for someone else, too.” she began, dropping her eyes. “I think stories are a little like that. You read them, and you might find something, like a lesson or a thought you’d been having trouble grasping, and in return you leave behind the person you were before you read them. Every word you read- every line on every page- it changes you.”

The silence lasted for so long that Belle began to bite her lip, nervous. Had she said something wrong?

“And… what did Victor Hugo help you to find?” he asked slowly, as if the question pained him.

“Hope.” The answer came without hesitation. “There’s always hope. There’s always light after the darkness. Even the darkest night has to end in a sunrise.” She finally looked up, meeting his eyes. Gold nodded approvingly. 

“I was a writer once.”

“Really?” she’d never actually met a writer before, but she’d always wanted to.

“Once upon a time. Pun intended, I suppose.” He shrugged. Belle’s answering smile was like a breath of fresh air. “It’s been years since I’ve written anything.”

“Why did you stop?”

“I…” but he couldn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t say he stopped because of his family. He didn’t say he stopped because of his crash. He didn’t say that he stopped because he simply couldn’t go on and longer. He said, “I don’t know.”

“I read about this guy, once, who wrote stories all his life, and finally published them into novels and short stories of all shapes and sizes. Funny guy- never let anyone take his picture, never gave interviews face to face. R. D. Spinner was his pen name…” she trailed off, but Gold’s throat went dry.

“Never heard of him.” he said, swallowing hard and hoping she wouldn’t notice.

“He disappeared. Fell of the face of the planet, really, and right at the height of his career. It was a little sad… but my point is that he once said ‘Writers write for the same reason a baker bakes. They feed themselves, and they feed others, and stories to humanity are as much a necessity as bread to a hungry man.’”

“Smart.” Mr. Gold muttered, trying not to fiddle with anything.

“Call me crazy… but I don’t think you _can_ stop.” Belle said. “Being a writer, I mean. I think once you start, you’re a writer forever, whether you like it or not, and even whether you write or not. A writer is just a storyteller, right? Everyone tells stories.”

“Not everyone, dearie.” 

_Those rare dreamers, mysterious priests of the beautiful who silently confront everything with perfection, would have caught a glimpse of this little working-woman , through the transparency of Parisian grace of the ancient and sacred euphony. This daughter of the shadows was thoroughbred. She was beautiful in two ways- style and rhythm. Style is the form of the ideal; rhythm is its movement…_

Two hours later, Belle’s phone dinged to indicate a text message.

_WHERE R U WE R WORRIED SICK!_

_Stop worrying- I’m fine. Holed up in an unlocked shop for now. Waiting till snow ends._

_Oh. Ok. Be safe._

“Looks like the snow’s let up.” Mr. Gold said. Sure enough, the snowing had stopped, even though it was still a little gloomy.

“I guess that’s my cue to leave.” She said quietly. “Have a Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold.”

The temptation to shout 'Humbug' was very strong.

_The incidents the reader is about to peruse were not at all known at M. sur M, but the small portion of them which became known left such a memory in the town that a serious gap would exist if we did not narrate then in their most minute details. Among these details the reader will encounter two or three improbable circumstances, which we preserve out of respect for the truth._

“Belle, thank God!” Ruby attacked her with a bear hug as she strode in Ashley’s front door.

“Breathe, Ruby.” Belle teased, fighting for breath herself while caught in Ruby’s vice-like hug. “I’m fine. Mr. Gold opened the pawn shop-”

“Mr. Gold?!” The entire room chorused, staring unabashedly. Mary Margaret choked on her coffee. Emma dropped the piece of toast she’d been eating.

“You were with the Beast for over two hours and he didn’t, like, eat you alive?” Ruby pulled Belle onto the sofa and sat down beside her. “Spill. I need to know this.”

“Wait- the Beast?” Belle shook her head, trying to physically clear her foggy mind. “He’s the guy whose doorbell you victimize every Christmas?”

“That’s the one.” Ashley chimed in. She pulled out mugs and began passing around hot chocolate. “Surprised?”

“I- I just… I thought he’d be older and... well, grumpier.” She said, twiddling her thumbs.

“What were you expecting? Ebenezer Scrooge?”

Something like that.” Belle tucked up her legs, and accepted a mug of steaming, dark liquid. “But... why call him the Beast? He wasn’t so bad.” 

“Wasn’t so bad?” Emma shook her head. “He basically terrorizes the entire town for rent, he’s grumpy all the time, and frankly I don’t even know why he stays here. No one really _likes_ him much, and he doesn’t have any family.”

“Maybe that’s why.” Belle suggested. 

“Why what? Why he’s the embodiment of ‘Bah Humbug?’” Ruby rolled her eyes. 

“Be nice.” Aurora mumbled, taking a sip of hot chocolate.

“I will when he gives me a reason to.” The fiery girl retorted, slumping back against the cushions.

“No, but… he just seemed so lonely. Maybe that’s why he’s so grumpy- he just doesn’t have anyone and no one makes an effort to be kind to him.”

“And saw Rudolph last night, too.” Emma stood to clear her dishes. Ruby glanced at her watch and jumped up, gathering her things.

“Oh, we’ve got to go! Granny says Christmas is the one year she can sleep late, but if we’re not back before noon to finish cooking she won’t be happy. See you guys tonight!”

Belle said her goodbyes and bustled out the door after Ruby. 

The day before, Belle had helped Ruby and Granny with their usual Christmas preparations, which included all the jellies and jams and anything else that could be left in the refrigerator safely for twenty four hours and taste the same. The rest of Ruby’s group of friends (plus a few of their family members and a boyfriend or two) would all meet over at Granny’s house that evening for dinner, each person bringing a different kind of hot food. Granny always insisted on preparing all the cold dishes, plus the dessert.

The dessert was the issue. 

Granny was making two of her famous cherry pies, along with another cake and some very peculiar chocolate frosting. Belle… well, she was rather scared to touch anything. She could cook a meal, but any kind of artistry in the kitchen was over her head, including desserts. For the sake of the pies and the general safety of everyone within Belle’s radius of clumsiness, Granny assigned her to the chocolate chip cookies.

X

“Come on, it’ll be fun!” Ruby said, tossing Belle’s hat to her.

“I don’t know…” Bell hesitated, wringing the hat in her hands. “No one really knows me here. I mean, I’d just be a bother and-”

“Nonsense! You’re just nervous. The Christmas party is practically mandatory. We’ll have some food, talk to some friends, clear out the chairs from the dining room and play music, and sometimes there are even decent dancers. Just humor me Belle, _please_?”

“Fine. I’ll do it for you.” Belle sighed, shrugging her shoulders in defeat.

“You’ll love it, trust me.” Ruby winked, smiling happily, and hooked her arm through Belle’s. 

By dinner the festivities were in full swing, and it wasn’t so much a group Christmas dinner as a full-on party. The food was lined up on a large table potluck style, and you ate when you wanted to, keeping out of the way of the dancers in the middle of the room. A small, kind man called Gepetto played the fiddle while a few other residents jumped in on the cello and trumpet, and Granny made the ancient piano in the corner sing. 

As beautiful as it was, Belle preferred to sit in the corner and watch. She wasn’t a people person as much as a people _observer_ , and that was fine with her. The joyful mood in the room seeped into her, and she smiled even though she didn’t dance, laughing at jokes and meeting new people with a frequency that absolutely exhausted her. 

After a few hours she managed to steal away to the kitchen for a brief moment of peace. The curtains were open, and she started out at the stars, shining pure and bright in the clear night. Everyone seemed to be over at Granny’s tonight, laughing and enjoying themselves. Everyone but…

A thought.

It might be a stupid idea. It might be something she would regret every day of her life in the future, but it was Christmas, a time for miracles, and she might as well try it. Belle found a basket hiding in one of the cabinets, filled it with about two dozen of the one hundred and fifty cookies she’d made earlier that day, pulled on her coat, and crept out the back door.

 

X

 

The house of R. D. Spinner was a lonely one to say the least.

It was Christmas Eve, and he was alone for the holidays again. Holidays were the worst. 

That was part of the reason he’d stopped writing. 

Fifteen years ago, he’d left his writing behind. He’d left everything in the past and moved on to a new life, gotten into stocks, made even more of a fortune than he already had, and generally pulled a rather Jean Valjean-like maneuver that he was quite proud of. It had been easy for him to disappear, so easy, in fact, that for the first several months he wondered if he was being watched.

But no. Nothing. Zip. No one seemed to know or care about him or his pen name in this little town, and that was perfectly fine with him. Between the money from his book sales (and his books did sell quite well), the stocks, and an inheritance gathering interest for twenty years, he was practically set for life.  
Except he wasn’t happy.

Why? Well, who knows why. Perhaps because he was almost afraid to speak with the only family he had left. Perhaps because everyone in the town hated him. Perhaps because he hated almost everyone in the town. Perhaps it was because he was just a grumpy old bastard who had lived far too well for far too long for his own good…

Or perhaps it was because he didn’t write any more.

Writing was vital to R. D. Spinner- words flowed through his veins like blood. Stories popped into his head at the strangest of times, just taunting him and begging to be put down on paper, but no. He wouldn’t write again. His damn writing career was what had caused all the trouble in the first place, wasn’t it?  
He couldn’t go back to those days, not back to his horrible marriage and the custody battles over Bae. He couldn’t go back to the drinking and the car crash that had caused him his leg injury, to losing his publishing contract because he could no longer meet deadlines, to the only thing he didn’t regret being writing under a pen name. It meant he could fade into nothingness in relative peace.

That is, until today.

Today was the day that someone actually seemed to care about his sorry existence, and he had to ask himself once more…. Why?

If he was lucky, he might get a chance to find out.

 

X

 

A pink house.

Mary Margaret had said that, hadn’t she? Surely there couldn’t be more than one pink house in Storybrooke? No, surely not. But if not, then where was it?!

No sooner had the thought occurred to her that she might be headed in the completely wrong direction than she saw the house. On the well-lighted streets it was a little hard to miss, actually, and she could see that a light was still on behind the shades. 

Basket swinging, Belle walked up to the door and hesitantly rang the bell.

Nothing.

She rang the bell again.

Nothing. Strange. Third time’s the charm?

A very inventive stream of curses came forth from inside, and shuffling footsteps came towards the door.

“I thought you stupid girls only did that on-” the door swung open to a very grouchy-looking Scot dressed in a white button down and gray dress pants, but his face softened in surprise at the confused look on Belle’s face.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” He said, eyes flicking down to the basket in her hand. “What are you doing here?”

“Everyone’s over at Granny’s… and… well, I thought you might be lonely.” She stuttered. “I brought you some cookies.” Fingers shaking, she held out the basket.

“I… thank you.” Mr. Gold took the basket from her hesitantly. She couldn’t know it, but it was the first Christmas present anyone had offered him in a five years. Somewhere outside his daze, he remembered his manners. “Won’t you come in?”

“Thank you.” She nodded and stepped inside. Her cheeks were unusually red- likely windburn from her walk earlier that day, but her eyes were bright and kind. She looked around with a kind of childlike interest that wasn’t rude, but was past polite.

“Not much to look at, I’m afraid, but it’s home.” Gold said. 

“No, it’s beautiful!” Belle breathed. She felt horribly nosy for gawking, but it was hard to help.

The house was old, that was obvious. There was a fireplace with a roaring fire in the den, and the design was definitely historic. Low ceilings, and spots where different means of heating (radiators and the like) had been added and removed over the years. An ancient grandfather clock ticked away beside the front door, and several paintings hung on the walls. There weren’t any decorations, but that wasn’t surprising. The coffee table was littered with papers and pens, a laptop resting on one side and softly playing the only salute to Christmas in the whole house: Tchaikovsky’s Nutcracker Suite. 

“Sorry for the mess. I don’t have visitors often.” He took the basket and tucked it away in the kitchen.

“Creative people are messy.” Belle shrugged, flashing a small smile. “I told you it wasn’t possible to stop being a writer.” Gold cleared his throat hastily, attempting to hide whatever emotion was trying to surface. 

“Yes, well… I’m sure you have people expecting you.”

“Not really.” She said, but quickly stopped and bit her lip, embarrassed. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, it’s just… never mind. Merry Christmas, Mr. Gold. Give me a call if you ever feel like talking.”

Before he could get in another word, she let herself out, scurrying back to Granny’s in the cold. She couldn’t have asked for a better place to spend Christmas, honestly. She just didn’t quite feel like she belonged- she never felt like she belonged. Storybrooke had welcomed her with open arms, and it was the closest thing to feeling like a real home in years. Maybe belonging would come. 

Maybe.

That was why she went there, she thought, as her feet crunched in the snow. Mr. Gold had been in this little town for who knows how long, and he still didn’t belong. A kindred spirit, perhaps.

 

X

 

The next morning there was a card waiting on her in the mailbox.

There were two things written inside- “Merry Christmas” and an email address, noted “If you ever feel like talking to an old Scrooge.”  
 _Hm_. Belle closed the card and tucked it in her purse.

“Merry Christmas to you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Likely TBC...


End file.
